Bowed Under a Heavy Burden
by Angst Is My Middle Name
Summary: Hearing Balin tell the Company of the Battle of Azanulbizar brings back terrible memories for Thorin, memories which are never very far away as is. Thorin remembers his own late brother Frerin and his death in that Terrible Battle. Warnings and author's note inside.


_**A/N: I write a combination of movie-verse and book-verse, so I still have Thorin at his book-verse age of 195, but also have movie-verse Balin as older than him. In the canon, dwarves basically live to the age 250, but there are tales of those who have lived longer than that and kicked some butt. I have largely kept the book canon intact, but I have the movie actors in my brain...**_

_**Warnings: minor canonical character death; thoughts of suicide (brief mention)**_

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You sit awake on watch after hearing Balin tell the others of the terrible Battle of Azanulbizar, completely unable to sleep. The battle is never far from your thoughts, as is so for anyone who was present that day, but hearing its tale told in full brings it full force into your mind. It gnaws at you, won't let you rest, won't let you close your eyes without being assaulted by the awful memories of that day. Your gaze drifts over to your nephews, and your eyes fill with tears.

At only five years apart, which is barely any time at all when counting the age of dwarves, Fili and Kili are inseparable. You can remember a time long ago when you had a precious companion and brother who was also only five years your junior: Frerin. Together, you and Frerin wrought havoc on the courts of Erebor, chasing each other, letting chickens and such loose, and terrorizing your younger sister Dis whenever possible. Thror would laugh heartily at your antics, while your father Thrain would attempt to scold you without smiling, and your mother Freya would gently chide you. You and Frerin would then take off on various adventures around Erebor, eager to explore the Kingdom Under the Mountain. Two happier dwarflings could not be found anywhere, of that you were sure.

Then, in the early autumn of the year T.A. 2770, came the first of many dark days for the heirs of Durin: the Coming of Smaug. The great worm rained fire down on the town of Men before the Mountain, destroying it utterly, before turning his attentions on Erebor and its treasure. At only twenty-four, you were still a child among your people, yet you had to help round up your family and subjects and lead them to safety. You took Dis into your arms and clutched Frerin's hand, following your parents and grandfather out of the mountain. Your home was gone.

You matured quickly after the loss of the Mountain, no longer wanting to indulge in Frerin's childish behavior but continually thankful that he never lost that innocence. He was always trying to lighten everyone's mood as your people wandered through Rhovannion to Dunland, constantly happy and lighthearted, even after the death of Thror at the hand of Azog.

Your grandfather's murder by the Pale Orc launched your people into a lengthy war with the Orcs of the Misty Mountains, and it pained you to see your brother, so kind and cheerful and warm, turn into a vicious warrior like you and your father. You had long been made into cold ice and fierce anger by death and duty, but Frerin… no, Frerin was a bright summer to your dark winter. Both of you bore the same dark mane and clear blue eyes as your sire and grandsire, albeit in different ways, as unlike as day and night in your extremes. You would stride into battle and destroy Orcs without thought or remorse, while Frerin would fret about the fight before and after.

"We cannot reason with Orcs," you told him, "They are mindless monsters."

"They are hardly mindless. They have a great capacity for war and battle."

"True, but that is all they know, all they understand. That is why they excel at it."

"We _can_ take back Khazad-dûm, can't we, brother?"

"Of course," you answered confidently, "Dwarves are better at killing Orcs than Orcs at killing Dwarves, especially in our own halls. We shall retake our ancient home. I promise."

"Yes…" Frerin replied thoughtfully, slowly, "but at what cost…"

Oh, the cost was very high indeed. The Orcs were routed completely and largely driven from the Misty Mountains, with nearly ten thousand killed. However, nearly half of your own forces were slain or mortally wounded, and fear choked your heart as you searched for your brother Frerin. The two of you had been separated during the First Vanguard's initial assault on the mountain. You heard that some of Vanguard had been driven in to the woods near the Mirrormere (or Kheled-zaram as your people call it) and had not yet returned. Hope and dread fought for dominance in your soul as you plunged on for the woods, calling out his name, praying for an answer. You moved sluggishly past your kinsmen Balin and Dwalin and learned their father Fundin was among the fallen that day. Fear pushed you deeper into the trees, ignoring your many wounds from the day's battle. You did not like what you found within.

Frerin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, younger brother of Thorin, was dead. His armor was rent, his entrails spilling from his body onto the ground. His warm blue eyes were now cold and glassy and unseeing, staring into nothing. As you dropped to your knees beside his body, the sound that loosed from your lips was terrifying and heart-wrenching and reminiscent of a dying animal. Tears poured down your face, sobs wracking your body, wounded howls echoing through the surrounding woods. There was little you could do but pull his lifeless body into your arms, rocking back and forth as if you were trying to send him to sleep like when you were dwarflings… save that he was already asleep; he would sleep forever now. It felt like someone had clawed into your chest and tore out a piece of your heart. Its every beat was now fraught with nearly intolerable pain.

You are still unsure to this day of how long you sat in the woods, cradling Frerin's body and wailing, before someone came to you. Dwalin rested a large hand on your head, speaking words of comfort you couldn't bear to hear. The larger dwarf had to restrain you as you screamed and cursed and struggled when they took Frerin from your arms until exhaustion left you crying weakly on the ground, unable to move at all. You watched as a group of dwarves bore him away to your father's tent and knew the elder dwarf would not take it well. You could not find the strength to resist as Dwalin pulled you to your feet and led you along behind the fallen prince. Not long after, you stumbled, lost consciousness, and collapsed to the ground.

When you woke once more, it took you a moment to figure out where you were and what had happened. You looked around the small tent and found yourself alone, your wounds tended and bandaged. You closed your eyes and tried to sleep once more, praying this was all a horrible dream, that Frerin would slip in through the tent flap and cheer that you were awake and clutch your hand and kiss your brow and weep for joy. You opened them again soon after. The sight of your brother's dead body was seared into your mind and set you weeping again.

Shortly after, Oin, a great healer and fierce warrior, came in to check on you. He made sure you were healing properly but said little before allowing your father in. The king looked broken and empty, a limping, half-blind shell of his former self. He walked right up to you and embraced you tightly, murmuring in your ear how happy he was to find you alive, and you clung to him in return. In that moment, you were a small child again, seeking comfort in your father's arms after a nightmare. The only difference is that this time the nightmare is not in your head. It surrounds you. This nightmare is all too real.

Thrain explained to you that in the two days you had been unconscious, he had ordered all the area trees cut down to create pyres to burn the dead, as there was no feasible way to build tombs for all the fallen nor to take them to your then-home in Dunland to create them.

"It must be done," he told you gently, "Mahal and our kin will forgive us. There is simply no other way, Thorin."

"Even my brother? We must leave him to a burning pyre, also?" you whimpered.

"Yes, even Frerin. His soul is already gone to our Creator's Halls, and we shall see him again when it is our time to join him. One day, our people will speak with great pride of these Burned Dwarves. For now, we are stripping the dead of their valuables and weapons to make sure no remaining Orcs can do it first. For now, you must rest, my son."

He embraced you again briefly and left the tent, leaving you alone once more. Rest would not come to you no matter how you desired it, so you simply laid awake on the cot, willing the images of your dead brother out of your mind. Thankfully, Oin came back with a vial of sleeping draught and sent you into a blissfully dreamless slumber for another day.

Still, many days passed before all the dead could be stripped and the pyres built for the fallen dwarves. You stood beside your father, tears streaming silently down your face as you looked upon the lifeless form of your younger brother. Realization crashed over you in a violent wave. Frerin was really and truly dead. No more would he terrorize your sister Dis or provoke Dwalin into chasing him or follow you about with nattering questions or curl up beside you when one of you needed comfort. Your brother, your constant companion and favorite playmate, was dead. You had a moment of despair in which you thought of throwing yourself onto the pyre beside him but quickly decided that it would solve nothing. Your parents had already lost one son; it would be the height of selfishness.

Dis and your mother wept a great deal at the loss of Frerin, and the grief led to Freya's death less than a year later. Not long after that, your people left Dunland for Ered Luin, the chain known as the Blue Mountains far to the West, where Thrain began to distance himself from his family. Your father became obsessed with reclaiming Erebor and Khazad-dûm until one day in T.A. 2841 he took a small band of loyal dwarves and left, never to return. Four years later, Balin and Dwalin returned to Ered Luin declaring Thrain had been lost in Mirkwood, making you the king of your people at only ninety-five years of age, king of a people that had no real home.

Yes, your folk had a place to live, a place for forges and mines and shops, a place to raise familes, but the Blue Mountains were _not_ your home. It pained you to see your sister-sons born in halls far from Erebor, far from the palatial caverns where they should have been. (And it certainly did not escape your notice that, like you and Frerin, Fili and Kili were born five years apart.)

"Uncle? Are you alright?" a familiar voice asks.

It pulls you from your reverie and makes you turn. You find Fili standing there, looking ashamed and wringing his hands.

"Yes, Fili, I'm fine," you answer automatically.

"Please, Uncle, don't lie. I know you're… upset with me and Kili," your eldest nephew tells you, "and you have every right to be. We shouldn't have tried to scare the Halfling with a tale of Orcs, especially since we know full well about the Terrible Battle. It was a poor choice. We're very sorry, Thorin."

You sigh and beckon him closer. When Fili sits beside you, you whisper, "You are forgiven. I remember, however vaguely, what it's like to be young, and you behaved as the young do, telling tall tales to frighten others. It was my favorite way to terrorize your mother when we were younger. I just… Balin telling our history brought horrible memories back to my mind, along with a pain I pray you will never feel in your long life, Fili."

His green eyes are big and questioning in the moonlight.

"Oh, my boy…"

You take his face in your hands and rest your forehead on his, softly telling him, "I swear on my life, I will do all that is in my power to protect you and Kili or die trying."

"Don't talk like that, Uncle Thorin," Fili replies, covering your hands with own and squeezing gently, "We'll take back Erebor, and then you'll be King Under the Mountain, and Kili and I will be at your side as we should be."

"I hope you are right, my nephew," you say, pulling back slightly to look in his eyes, "I hope all you have said comes true. I do not want you to face the troubles I had."

He still looks worried as you draw him into an embrace that is meant more to comfort you rather than him. Shortly after, you hear Kili approach.

"Fili? Uncle? Is everything alright?" he echoes his brother from earlier.

He too looks worried and upset, so you bid him come to you, and he practically runs into your arms. He mutters, "I'm sorry, Uncle. I was stupid. I wasn't thinking when I-"

"Hush now, Kili, you are forgiven. Just… just sit here with me a while and ease my heavy heart a bit…"

The youngest nestles his head under your chin, his hand seeking Fili's for comfort, and the three of you remain in the embrace for a long while. Many thoughts and wishes pass through your head. You wish they had never come on this quest. You wish they didn't remind you so of Frerin and yourself. You wish Erebor had never fallen to the dragon Smaug. More than anything in the world, you wish Frerin had never died. You clutch your nephews a bit tighter, thinking, _You will go together or not at all, my precious sister-sons. Together or not at all across the Sea… and if you leave to meet our Creator on this quest, then so shall I, for if you were to die I would not be able to live on without you. I would not want to._

You finally pull away and take their chins in hand, seeing two large pairs of eyes looking back, one set green and the other brown. With a soft smile that hides your inner turmoil as best you can, you press a kiss to each of their foreheads, murmuring, "I love you, Fili," and "I love you, Kili."

"And I love you, Uncle," reply your sister-sons in turn.

You then release them and tell them, "Now off to bed. Leave the burdens of old men to the old men for tonight. Sleep well, my boys."

Kili scampers off for his bedroll, but Fili glances back at you knowingly. You yourself never told him exactly what happened to your younger brother, but you are sure he asked Dwalin or Balin or Dis or Oin or any number of other dwarves that would know. Therefore, you are also quite sure that he is well aware of the manner of Frerin's death. You watch as he moves his bedroll closer to Kili's, not wanting to stray far from his precious companion.

Fresh tears spring to your eyes as you realize that Fili and Kili have already had more time with each other than you and Frerin had. _Together or not all… that's how brothers should go… one should never be left to carry this burden..._


End file.
